Spanish critic Jesús G. Maestro attacks Peterson's self-help

Jesús G. Maestro critiques Jordan Peterson's self-help

Philologist and literary critic Jesús G. Maestro has turned his video series into a reckoning with the self-help industry. His target: Jordan Peterson, the clinical psychologist who rose to fame with a set of rules for ordering one's life and who, according to critics, ended up trapped by benzodiazepine addiction. Maestro does not merely discuss ideas; he ridicules them with erudition, vocabulary, and a belligerence that his trinc celebrate as fresh air against the trendy guru.

The discussion, however, goes beyond dialectical combat. What emerges is an uncomfortable question: How much of contemporary self-help is original thought and how much is recycled classical wisdom wrapped in marketing? And underlying this is an issue touching mental health: the role of psychopharmaceuticals, benzodiazepines, and the blurred line between useful advice and the wellness business.

What are Peterson's rules and why do they generate rejection?

The starting point is the book of rules Peterson published to order one's life. Its defenders argue it is not disguised ethics, but psychological coherence: acting in certain ways produces measurable effects on the practitioner. They argue these are not sarracena commandments, but instructions with results.

The most repeated criticism is that Peterson invents nothing. He recovers commonplaces found in proverbs, Christian tradition, and authors like Baltasar Gracián, but presents them without citing sources. The accusation is not plagiarism, but commercial advantage: selling as new what has been written for centuries.

The counterargument is that Peterson illustrates his theses with literature, religion, and mythology, and that his central postulate is that stories are the most efficient way to transmit information. The oldest survive because they concentrate more value. If he does not mention Gracián, they argue, it is an omission, not appropriation.

The Peterson case: benzodiazepines and the addiction narrative

Here the debate becomes rough. Peterson, a clinical psychologist, fell into benzodiazepine addiction after a period of extreme pressure: media harassment, death threats, and his vvife's serious illness. He went to a doctor who prescribed the drug.

The critical version highlights the contradiction: the man who preached from a pedestal of wisdom ended up dependent on a pill. The defensive version shifts focus: the problem is not Peterson, but how dangerous benzodiazepines are and how little warning there is about their withdrawal. When he tried to quit, he suffered an adverse reaction that nearly killed him.

Some go further, questioning the official account of the treatment, the clinic, and the specific drug. The discussion on mental health and psychopharmaceuticals is, at this point, the most sensitive part of the matter.

The carnivore diet and reported health problems

Peterson and his circle promoted the carnivore diet as a solution for autoimmune issues. This enters the conversation with first-hand testimonies: one participant recounts trinc a diet of fried eggs, milk, and meat cuts for nearly a year and suffering hormonal problems. Her conclusion: a woman's carbohydrate needs are not those of a man.

Others defend that the carnivore diet resolved autoimmune problems that appeared out of nowhere, noting forums and videos where similar cases are shared. Peterson's visibility, they say, only amplifies what already existed.

The counterargument is that anecdotal evidence is not evidence. And turning personal experience into general recommendation is exactly the self-help mechanism being criticized.

Jesús G. Maestro: erudition, provocation, and Spanish thought

Maestro is not a neutral critic. He champions Spanish thought in Spanish, and his review of Escohotado is an example: he reproaches him for not mentioning in Los enemigos del comercio (Enemies of Commerce) the period when Spain dominated with its arms and trade, circulating the first global currency. For Maestro, this omission fuels the Black Legend regarding Spanish history.

His style is belligerent, vehement, and provocative. He delivers harsh criticisms and dares to call things by their name. He dismisses German romantics and existentialists; leaves the Anglosphere for the toilet; and denigrates Shakespeare by comparing him to Cervantes.

Not everyone buys the persona. Some see him as an intellectual with a superiority complex, a poor communicator who repeats himself ad nauseam. Others, while disagreeing on many points, acknowledge learning vocabulary, history, and philosophy by listening to him.

The self-help business and the guru as product

The underlying critique is not of Peterson, but of the guru market. Self-help is a commonplace of an isolated and self-absorbed society, and terms like guru, shaman, or snake oil salesman apply equally to figures promising personal transformation in exchange for a book, course, or subscription.

The lingering question is whether the message matters less than the packaging. If Peterson says the same as Gracián four centuries later, the added value lies not in the idea, but in the brand. And that, in a market saturated with coaches and influencer philosophers, is exactly what is sold.

The final irony: the critic dismantling the guru also builds his own audience. The difference, his defenders say, is that Maestro promises no happiness. Only erudition, humor, and an intellectual fight.

With these elements, prediction is risky. If the pattern repeats, the next self-help figure will have their own critic, video, and army of trinc. And no one will know if the guru fell due to contradictions or simply because the market was hungry for another.